


Flowers on the Wagon

by KeyPea



Series: Dunwall Survivors' Tales [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gang Violence, Gen, Plague, Survivors, campfire tales, the empress' funeral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeyPea/pseuds/KeyPea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Survivors in Dunwall gather around a fire to tell stories and share their perspectives on the rat plague and the violence that now rules their once-great city.</p>
<p>In this tale, a maid who once worked in Dunwall Tower shares her experience of her beloved lady's final send-off. Even in these troubled times, the funeral of an Empress is an extravagant affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers on the Wagon

The funeral of an Empress was an extravagant affair, even in these troubled times. Access restrictions had been temporarily lifted across Dunwall to allow even the poorest civilians to attend and farewell their great lady, and although the city watch manned the barricades, focused on the crowd in order to spot any signs of bleeding from the eyes, for one day violence and plague was trying to fade into the background, as gang members stood side by side with merchants and children.

On Clavering Boulevard, people stood two or three deep behind the blue watch barricades – it must have been nearly everyone from the entire district and the surrounding ones, and some were standing on boxes and walls. All were straining for the best view for when the carriage carrying the body of their beloved Empress would roll by. The turnout alone was testament to how loved she had been amongst her people.

At the front lines of the throng, about halfway down the street, a young woman stood up straight proudly, dressed in black pants and blouse that she’d washed especially for the occasion. The clothes were taken from her former work outfit, but no-one had to know that. She’d been a maid in Dunwall tower before the murder, but had quickly fled to seek work elsewhere after realising the new Lord Regent’s tyrannical campaign would land her in situations she never wanted to be in. She’d heard some of the other girls talking, ones who had experienced a sideways look, a lewd comment or even a grab from a wayward city watch guard, cock-sure of his protection under the Lord Regent. The honourable men within their ranks weren’t worth suffering the dogs that had spent too many long shifts alone without the company of a woman.

The city was going to these dogs – the maid had heard enough conversations by listening at doors to be sure of that. Even on such an occasion as laying their former Empress to rest, some men wearing her uniform were abusing it, pushing back the civilians at the barricades, sneering at the state of their dress or health and even ignoring them entirely, as if they were no better than the rats they had sent scurrying into drains to clear the way for the procession.

Up above the street level, one or two nobles who had houses here were present on balconies, looking almost disinterested in the spectacle. A well dressed man on the left of the street had a chair brought out on his balcony and sat with a bottle of Gristol cider and a cigar; a woman wearing an apron at his side was looking as if she wished desperately to rush to the front of the balcony to see her former Empress’ funerary procession better.

Back on the street, a guard the maid had seen on staff at Dunwall tower stopped close to her, but either didn’t see her or didn’t recognise her. He turned his back to the crowd and put one hand on his sword ceremoniously, as his comrades up and down the line were starting to do. Word travelled that the carriage was about to come through.

If some in the crowd had expected the Empress’ ornate stagecoach pulled by horses to be carrying her body, they were going to be disappointed. Instead a huge, imposing train on the rails laid down in the street rolled into view, the only horses in the parade being ridden at the sides by high-ranking watch officials in tall hats, polished swords dangling from their belts. The maid heard sparks from the tracks and knew they were live – somewhere further up and beyond the crowed lines, tanks of whale oil had been plugged in, powering the train forwards. The industrial gray of the carriage might have looked out of place for this grandiose affair, but tears sprang to the maid’s eyes as she saw the vast wagon was covered in flowers, with the finest drapery in Gristol adorning the sides.

At first there was silence as the train rolled slowly forwards and even the horses trotted calmly, a great sadness settling over the scene as the citizens were given a good look at what was to become the end of an era. Soon though, people began throwing flowers which landed on the carriage itself or on the street next to it. Some started clapping, and soon the whole area rang with the sounds of cheering as the emotional populace bid farewell to their beloved monarch. Close to where the maid was standing, a man standing on a covered box and waving his hat in one hand and a bottle of Dunwall whiskey in the other shouted, “Long Live The Empress!”

The ironic sentiment was soon echoed through the streets by many as they waved their farewells, shouted or stomped their feet upon the ground. Opposite her, the maid saw another young woman dressed similarly to herself, tears falling openly from her eyes as she leaned over the barricades, kissed a gloved hand and raised it to the train in tribute as it rolled by, a man who looked like he could be her father standing with his hand on her shoulder and pulling her back, face unreadable. The maid felt a sudden pang of regret that the young Lady Emily would not be here to say goodbye to Jessamine Kaldwin and see how loved her mother had been, but no-one had seen the girl since her abduction. The maid wondered if the young lady had been told of her mother’s funeral at all, or if she was even still alive to hear of it.

The crowd was breaking up as the train passed through the far archway, ranks of the city watch coming together to cut off the entrance. Barriers at the sides of the street were abandoned as the people surged to see through the arch; the train had reached the bridge at the end of the boulevard, where thick chains attached to sturdy whaling cranes were being secured to iron rings at each end of the carriage. Lifting the hull of the train clear of its wheels and lowering it down to the river, a decorated barge was waiting to convey the hearse and the Empress within on the final part of the funerary parade; to her final resting place in the crypt at the grounds of Dunwall tower.

Droves of people were drifting away now, filtering down side streets or out both ends of the main boulevard, the city watch relinquishing their roadblock now the train was safely passed through the district. The maid followed at the back of a throng of people heading down the stairs at the Holger Square end of the street. No-one was speaking much anymore, the oppression of the present plague returning to still tongues now the Empress’ spectacle was over.

Abruptly, the person in front of her stopped and she bumped into them, muttering an apology. Many others had done the same and there was some pushing and raised voices as those at the back tried to see what was holding up the crowd.

“She was a wench, and she’s dead!” A man jeered, the only call clear enough to hear over the mumblings of the crowd.

“Someone fetch the guards!” Someone else shouted, and the maid was jostled again, pushed forwards as one or two of the navy-coated men attempted to fight their way to the front. In a gap she could see the standoff between one man with a can of spray-paint, and another with a scarf wrapped around his face, shielding his nose and mouth. The man with the paint appeared to have been tagging the wall with something, provoking a reaction from the other.

An unease swept the group and the maid knew instantly they’d run into some sort of gang trouble – their earlier peace in front of the Empress’ train had apparently been too good to last.

“This city has gone to the rats, and you’re next!” The man with the scarf yelled, bringing out a rag and stuffing it into the neck of a whiskey bottle he was carrying. There were real screams from the crowd now and people tried to scatter, some pushing backwards and others fleeing down different paths, hindering the progress of the city watch. The maid barely knew which way to run and so surged forwards with others, wanting a closer look and yet wishing to have no part in the violence.

“Stand aside, citizen!” One watchman ordered, roughly dragging a young woman out of the way to make room for himself and a comrade. The space was filled with flames as the bottle of whiskey, alight, landed there and exploded. Gang members materialised from all directions as if they’d been waiting for this fight, and began throwing punches at each other, scrapping one-to-one or preparing weapons or cocktails.

This was the cue for the crowd to split, survivors still stampeding over each other, eager to escape with their lives, and the maid surged with them, heading down the same street, determined to reach safety.

“I’ve got a clear shot!” The watchman’s partner yelled, cocking his pistol in the general direction of the warring factions. The bullet from his gun echoed off the nearby buildings, and the maid risked one glance backwards as she fled. The bullet had hit the spray-painter and his can was rolling away; still drying on the wall was a perfect silhouette of their great lady.

***

Later on, as the rat plague worsened and the city watch gave ground to the gangs inch by inch, the maid told this story as she gathered at the fire barrel with other survivors, and heard others in return.


End file.
